


Speak Now, Or Forever Hold Your Peace

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unexpected revelations at a wedding.</p>
<p>Thanks to Ladyofthelog for betaing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak Now, Or Forever Hold Your Peace

“Oh God,” muttered John under his breath, so quietly that it seemed likely only Sherlock could hear him. “What am I doing?” His eyes were fixed on Mary's parents, who had just entered the church with irritatingly smug smiles beaming out at everyone. 

_Had given up all hope that Mary would find a suitable husband,_ thought Sherlock. _Not sure John is suitable, but entirely too relieved they can finally tell their friends she's married._ They would be pushing for grandchildren within a year. Sherlock refused to follow that train of thought any further.

“Deep breaths,” he said to John. “I thought soldiers were meant to be courageous.”

John let out a snort. “Fuck you, I won a Military Cross.”

Mary's mother turned to them, and gave John a beaming thank-you-so-much-for-rescuing-our-daughter-from-lonely-spinsterhood smile. It looked like something a wolf would give a cornered rabbit.

“Oh God,” said John again, his voice going up an octave.

Time to be a good Best Man. Sherlock turned to locate the vicar. “Is there somewhere we could go for a breath of fresh air?” he asked.

The vicar glanced at John's pale face. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Through the vestry.”

Sherlock nodded, took John's elbow and hustled him away from all of Mary's awful relatives, who were starting to circle as if sensing a weakness in their prey.

The back door in the vestry led out to a little alleyway, where John let out a long breath. “Jesus,” he said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” said Sherlock, taking the chance to light up a cigarette. John gave him the usual glare of _you're poisoning your lungs_ , which Sherlock ignored. He was about to have to sit through an excruciatingly long and dull service and there was a chance he'd be experiencing emotional discomfort during it. He could do with more than a cigarette, really, but he'd take what he could get. That was true of more than one area in his life at the moment.

“Christ,” said John again, half-shaking his head with a wry smile that said he knew how ridiculous he was being. “I didn't think I'd be the type to suddenly get nervous on the day of it, not after all this planning.”

_It's a sign you're doing the wrong thing,_ thought Sherlock sharply. _Run away with me instead. We can go to Paris – you'd be amazing, running through Parisian streets. I bet I could dazzle you_ en Français _as easily as I can in English._

Not just a chance of emotional discomfort, he acknowledged to himself. It was more of a certainty.

The door to the vestry creaked open, and Lestrade stepped out. “I thought I saw you two running off,” he said. “For a moment I thought there'd been a crime.”

John laughed. “Even I wouldn't let Sherlock drag me off to a murder on the day of my wedding.”

Sherlock allowed himself a moment to bitterly wish that wasn't true, then carefully shut the thought away with all the many other feelings that he couldn't afford to let himself acknowledge until he was alone.

Lestrade nudged Sherlock and nodded at his cigarette. “Can I bum one of those?”

Sherlock let out a sigh and handed one over, but not without pointing out, “You're meant to have quit.”

“Could say the same to you,” said Lestrade, lighting up and taking a long drag.

“Sherlock's allowed to do whatever he wants today, as long as he doesn't lose the rings or make anyone cry,” said John.

Lestrade's eyebrows raised and he gave Sherlock an entirely too-knowing look. Damn him, why did he have to choose now to be perceptive rather than while investigating the incredibly obvious murder last week in Hackney?

“Is that so?” he asked. “That include cocaine?”

“No,” said John. “That would make me cry, after all.”

“Oh for-” snapped Sherlock. “I am not going to be taking cocaine, today or any other day. I'm clean. I've been clean for years. That's all over and done with.” 

He'd become addicted to something far more powerful, after all, although he was losing his easy access to it today. He'd still be able to get the occasional hit though, he had to hold on to that. Occasional shots of John Watson were better than none at all and there was nothing to say this marriage would last. 1 in 3 marriages ended in divorce. There was always hope, as much as he usually hated that sentiment.

“I know,” said John, his voice going softer. “I know, Sherlock. I was just joking.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, taking in both the apology and the affection that lay behind it. He thought of Paris again.

The vestry door opened again and Harry poked her head out. “There you are,” she said. “Christ, I thought I was the only one of the groomsmen left, and I'd have to marry Mary when she arrived. That would have irritated Judith.” 

Lestrade and Harry were both ushers, although Harry was wearing a dress rather than the morning suits Mary had insisted on for the rest of them. She'd flatly refused to wear one, claiming it made her look too much like a lesbian. Sherlock had decided not to point out the obvious flaw in that.

“John, we have a problem,” she said.

John tensed up. “Oh god,” he said. “Please tell me the vicar's still alive.”

“What?” she asked. “No, he's fine. It's Terry and Alison. They've decided that as they're your closest relatives, apart from me, they should be in the front pew. They made Mrs. Hudson move back.”

“Oh, not a chance,” said John. “After the thing at Mum's funeral? No. Hell, no. They're at the back, the very back, behind a pillar.”

“They won't listen to me,” said Harry. “You know they stopped being able to hear me properly when I came out.”

“Don't worry, I'll sort it out,” promised John, and followed her back inside the church.

Lestrade let out an amused breath. “Family always finds a way to make a scene at these things,” he said. “My cousin decided that my wedding was an excellent chance to try getting drunk for the first time. Christ, who knew anyone could have that much vomit inside them?”

“I did tell John not to bother inviting them,” said Sherlock. “I think the size of Mary's side persuaded him to try and boost his numbers a bit – foolish. Mrs. Hudson's presence alone is worth more than every member of Mary's family.”

“Yeah, he mentioned you'd been helping with the organising,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. “I merely gave advice. He seemed a little overwhelmed at certain points.”

“He also said that he wasn't sure he'd have made it through without your support,” said Lestrade in a slow, careful voice that Sherlock immediately distrusted. He was building to something, and it was unlikely to be something good. “He told me about the dinner last night.”

Sherlock made a face. “There should be a law against having that many of Mary's family in one place,” he said.

“Probably,” agreed Lestrade, but unfortunately he wasn't distracted from the point he was heading for. “He was- Sherlock. John said that _you_ specifically were how he's survived all this. He didn't mention Mary at all. Doesn't that seem odd?”

“Not particularly,” said Sherlock as dismissively as he could. He'd been right; this wasn't good.

Lestrade let out a long sigh, as if Sherlock was the one who had been unable to make a simple deduction from a scratch on a chest-of-drawers and a broken chess piece last week. “Sherlock, you must know that he loves you.”

Sherlock froze up. He hadn't needed to hear those words, not on this day of all days. “Yes, I do know that,” he spat out.

“No, I mean, he's in love with you,” persisted Lestrade.

“Yes, I'm aware of that too,” said Sherlock, then couldn't help adding, “It defies logic, but I am more than observant enough to have seen the many signs of it.” Because he had, of course he had. He might not be as good with emotions as he was with facts, but John Watson wore his heart on his sleeve, and it had always been clear for whom it beat.

“Right, of course,” said Lestrade quietly, ducking his head and running his hand through his hair. “And have you noticed that you love him back?”

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh. “Oh yes.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” said Lestrade. “Why haven't you done anything about it?”

Sherlock paused, and took another drag of his cigarette. If he let it all out as if detailing the facts of a case, would it help him get through the next few hours? Doubtful, but somehow he couldn't keep quiet about it any longer. If John was never going to know, then at least someone other than Sherlock should.

“You knew me before I met him,” he said, throwing his cigarette butt on the ground. “Would you have said that I was capable of a friendship back then – a true friendship?”

Lestrade hesitated. “Well, I think-”

He was about to try and be diplomatic. Sherlock had no interest in that. “Be honest. You know I prefer it.”

“Well, okay,” said Lestrade. “Probably not then. You were a bit- yeah.”

Coherent as always, but Sherlock could guess what he meant. “Exactly,” he said. “I am not blind to my own shortcomings. I knew that a relationship would likely only end disastrously for us both. I decided to master friendship first, before trying anything more complex.”

“You weren't ready,” nodded Lestrade. “I guess I can understand that. He's always had girlfriends, though – didn't you think you might lose your chance?”

“You know what he was like with them,” said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. “Do you really think any of them, before Mary, were any kind of threat to me?” Lestrade had been around for at least one bout of 'Sherlock is ruining our relationship', and he and John had doubtless discussed others on their trips to the pub. John's tendency to put Sherlock first had been obvious enough for people a lot stupider than Lestrade to pick up on it.

Lestrade snorted and half-shook his head. “Right, probably not.” He paused for a moment, finishing his own cigarette. “You've been friends ages now, though.”

“There was an incident that reminded me of the dangers of letting others have that much control over you,” Sherlock said, remembering how Irene Adler's feelings for him had been the key to her downfall. “And then, Moriarty stepped back into the picture. After - when I returned - I had to set about re-establishing John's trust in me. And then he met Mary.”

Mary. Who John had fallen in love with so quickly that it had made Sherlock's head spin. Who was funny and kind and just shook her head with amusement when John tried to explain how he'd ended up in Guildford dressed as a priest, or when Sherlock revealed as many brutal truths about her as he could. She'd been endlessly _understanding_ about the cases in a way that none of John's other girlfriends had been. She'd even encouraged John to help Sherlock once or twice, telling him she didn't want to get in the way of what made him who he was. She was insufferably well-suited to John, as much as anyone who wasn't Sherlock could be.

“Right,” said Lestrade with a heavy sigh. “I guess no one was expecting this all to happen so quickly. They can't have known each other more than six months-”

“Nine months and one week,” corrected Sherlock.

Lestrade was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “Christ, it's a mess.”

Sherlock let out a humourless snort. “I am well aware of that.” He took a deep breath. They would have to go inside in a minute. No doubt Mary was on her way here and he needed to be John's Best Man, avoid embarrassing him and make sure he didn't regret trusting Sherlock with this.

“There is nothing to be done,” he told Lestrade. “I can't – he's happy with her. It's what he's wanted for himself, all this domestic nonsense.”

“He was happy with you, too, and you two had your own version of domestic that, frankly, terrified me, but which he seemed to enjoy.”

Sherlock twisted his mouth at that. “Clearly, he didn't enjoy it enough.”

“That's not true, actually,” said a strained voice, and Sherlock spun to see John holding open the vestry door, staring at Sherlock with a look that reminded Sherlock far too much of the expression he'd had when Sherlock had revealed himself to him after having been presumed dead for so long.

Sherlock froze, staring back and desperately trying to work out how to spin this. Maybe he was lucky, maybe John hadn't heard everything, and he could still manage to-

John let go of the door, took two staggering steps towards Sherlock, grabbed his lapels and pulled him down into a furious, heartfelt kiss. Sherlock's mind went offline for one, glorious moment in an explosion of white, then he grabbed John's shoulders and pulled him in closer so that he could kiss him back just as passionately.

It was several minutes before John pulled back, and then it was only far enough to lean his forehead against Sherlock's. “Christ,” he said. “Christ, Sherlock, you- You have the worst timing.”

Sherlock became aware that Lestrade had disappeared somewhere and wondered when that had happened. “In my defence,” he said, then had to clear his throat and try again when it came out rather hoarse. “It's not my sense of timing, it's yours. You're the one who has apparently decided to take up eavesdropping.” He couldn't seem to let go of John's shoulders, clinging on as if John might melt away into a dream if he didn't keep hold of the evidence that he was solid and real.

“Last month you told me off for not doing it more,” John reminded him.

“On cases, John,” said Sherlock. “This is completely different.” 

“Yeah, it is,” said John, letting out a long sigh and pulling away. Sherlock let him go despite his desperate need to keep him close. “Christ, Sherlock. This is- we're at my wedding, my actual wedding!”

“I am aware of that,” said Sherlock, readjusting his jacket. He was finding it rather hard to get his brain working properly while it was filled with the sensation of John's lips against his own.

“There is a church full of people waiting to watch me marry Mary!” continued John, running his hands into his hair.

That was like a bucket of cold water. “I am more than aware of that, too,” snapped Sherlock.

“Oh, god, I'm sorry,” said John, starting to pace. “It's just- Christ, I was coming to tell you that she's on the way, she's going to be here any minute. What are we going to do?”

“We?” asked Sherlock. He took a deep breath and forced himself to fit back into the person he needed to be today. “I should imagine that _you_ are going to go out there and marry her, have a reception with all those dreadful people, then disappear off on a honeymoon. And when you come back, we can pretend this never happened.”

John had stopped pacing and was gaping at him. “Do you really think I could do that after this?”

“You love her,” Sherlock pointed out. Things would be so much easier if that wasn't true, but the evidence was obvious on that score as well.

“I love you too!” said John. 

Sherlock had to draw in a sharp breath at that. It seemed that knowing was not the same as hearing, even if it was said in a voice burning with frustration. He had to look away from John and bite at his tongue to get his thoughts back on track.

“You have two choices, John,” he said. “Either you marry her, in which case you will go and live with her, and have whatever it is that you like about being around her, and also get to be my friend, come on my cases and have the excitement you crave from them. Or, you can not marry her, in which case she will descend into emotion, her family will likely attempt to kill you, and it is unlikely you will ever see her again. Only one of those choices ends with you having both the people you love.”

John stared at him. “You want me to marry her so that I can keep both of you?” he asked incredulously.

The vestry door opened before Sherlock could respond, and the vicar looked out. “The bride is here,” he announced.

“Oh god,” said John, running his hands through his hair again.

“Ah,” said the vicar. “Cold feet?”

“No,” said Sherlock firmly, glaring at John. “You were ready to marry her half an hour ago. Nothing has changed.”

“Everything has changed!” exclaimed John. “I thought– God!” He cut himself off and resumed his pacing.

The vicar looked at him, then at Sherlock as if for an explanation. Sherlock ignored him.

“John, there's no time for this,” he said.

John shook his head. “There's never any time when these things happen,” he said. “That's not how it works in my life.” He stopped pacing and spun to look at Sherlock. “You- what you said to Lestrade, about when you met me. Is all that really true?”

Christ, he had heard the whole thing. Sherlock hesitated, then nodded. No point in any more deception. “It's irrelevant now,” he started, and was interrupted.

“Of course it isn't. It's completely relevant,” said John. “You can't possibly tell me that you're happy about me leaving. I knew that much before, but I thought it was just that you'd have to learn how to do your own washing up.”

“I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will-”

John snorted. “No, she bloody won't,” he said. “Not after the first week or so, or the first set of corroding test tubes. Which is completely beside the point.”

Sherlock was aware of the vicar's gaze turning to him, but it was easy enough to ignore that under the weight of having to come up with some way to explain himself. He knew that he could say something now, something cruel, that would let John go back into the church and marry Mary without regret, or without too much regret anyway, but he felt he owed him more than that.

“You're happy with her. I don't want you to throw away something – someone – that-” He stopped, breathed, and tried again. “I am never going to be proficient at many of the things that make relationships easy.”

John stared at him. “You want me to marry Mary because you think it would give me a better chance of happiness?” he said, then shook his head. “Christ, Sherlock.” He stepped forward to take hold of Sherlock's arm. “Don't you think I want you to be happy as well?”

Sherlock stared at him. He had no idea how to respond to that.

The vicar cleared his throat. “If I may,” he said, “it seems that entering into a committed relationship at this stage is extremely unwise, whatever you ultimately decide. Marrying Mary when you are not a hundred percent certain you wish to spend the rest of your life with her would be a grave mistake. The marriage vows are not to be taken lightly, you know.”

John looked at him, then nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I can't do that to her. Can you – is there somewhere I can talk to her? In private?”

“Of course,” said the vicar. “Come inside.” He ushered John inside and Sherlock let them go, trying to convince himself that he wasn't reeling at this turn of events. John was abandoning his wedding, for him? Just like that, and despite Sherlock telling him that he should go ahead with it?

He took several deep breaths, until the emotions whirling in his stomach had calmed a little, and wondered what on earth was meant to happen next. Should he be phoning the reception venue and cancelling the catering? Going inside to talk to the guests? Finding a pair of handcuffs so he could restrain Mary's mother when she found out about this?

He lit another cigarette instead.

Lestrade appeared after a few minutes. “John and Mary are having a little chat,” he said neutrally.

“Yes, it seems the wedding is off,” said Sherlock.

“I see,” said Lestrade. “And you and he are-?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He doesn't seem to have made any firm decisions yet.”

“Maybe you should make one for him, then,” said Lestrade. “Get off the fence and make a proper play for him. This is it, Sherlock, your chance. If you let it slip-”

There was the sound of loud, hysterical shouting from inside. Sherlock winced. Mary's family must have found out.

“It's up to him,” he said. “He knows where I stand.”

“Does he?” asked Lestrade. “Look, bit of advice that I could have done with before my marriage. Never assume that the other person knows what you're thinking or feeling. Lay it out for them, make sure they _know_. It's never a good idea to leave grey areas. No one's psychic, Sherlock, not even you.”

The shouting escalated inside as Sherlock thought about that. What did he want? Well, right now that was easy enough to work out. He nodded and threw away his cigarette in order to head back into the church.

John was in the midst of a crowd of Mary's relatives, looking as if he was taking a verbal hammering. Harry was next to him, shouting back in a way that was not helping at all, and Mary was holding on to her mother's arm as if trying to restrain her. The vicar was flapping uselessly in the background, clearly hoping there wouldn't be a brawl that would damage his church.

“Stop!” said Sherlock in a loud, commanding voice. There was sudden, blissful silence for a split-second, then Mary's mother turned her glare on him.

“And as for you-” she started. 

Sherlock held up his hand. “No one is interested,” he said. “John. I think it would best for all involved if we left immediately.”

John hesitated, glancing at Mary who nodded with a clenched jaw. “Right,” he said. “Good idea. Look, Mary, I am so sorry-”

“Save it,” she said through gritted teeth. “I'll talk to you later. Probably much later.”

John nodded grimly, then he and Sherlock escaped from the church. Sherlock hailed a taxi, got John into it and directed the driver to take them to Baker Street.

“Oh god,” said John as they started moving. “Oh god, did you see her face? She was devastated.”

“She'll get over it,” said Sherlock.

John glared at him. “Not helping. I've just ruined what should have been the happiest day of her life, in front of her whole family, all her friends, everyone she knows.” He dropped his head into his hands. “I'm scum,” he said.

“Of course you're not,” said Sherlock. “Don't be melodramatic.”

“I'm not-!” started John, then gave up in favour of letting out a long groan.

Sherlock looked at the top of his head for awhile and realised just how good the advice Lestrade had given him was. He had no idea what John was feeling, or what he wanted. Some things could not be deduced. “John, what are your plans now?”

“Plans? Jesus, Sherlock, I just abandoned my own wedding. I don't have any plans at all.”

Sherlock nodded to himself. “Right then,” he said. He looked over at where the driver was hanging on every word they said, beside himself with glee at the story he'd get to tell when he got home later. Sherlock's next speech was only going to add to that, but it hardly mattered as long as he didn't try to chip in.

“I feel it only fair to give you all the information before you make any decisions, then,” he stated. John pulled his face out of his hands in order to look at him. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the passing buildings. He wasn't sure he'd be able to get this out if he had to actually look at John's face while he was speaking. 

“I have extremely strong feelings for you, of a nature I have never experienced. I have had them for some time. Ideally, I would like to engage in a relationship with you, with all that implies. However, I am content to continue in our current situation if you feel that you would prefer that to taking a risk.” He paused, trying to ignore the wide-eyed stare John was giving him. Did that cover everything? Perhaps he should express his core desire. “What I really do not want is to lose our friendship. If you feel there is any risk of that happening, I would much rather we did nothing at all.”

There, that was his take on the situation laid out as clearly as he could state it. His skin felt oddly tight, as if it had shrunk somehow, and he was aware that his hand had curled into a fist.

John let out a choked laugh. “God, Sherlock, that was-” He stopped and shook his head. “Of course you would say it like that.”

This statement did nothing to calm Sherlock's nerves. “John-”

“No,” interrupted John. “My turn now.” He paused to collect his thoughts and Sherlock noticed that the cabbie was practically on the edge of his seat. “Right, well,” said John. “I've been in love with you since – I'd like to say since we met, but that seems a bit dramatic and I know how you hate hyperbole. When you were gone, I spent half my time berating myself for not doing anything about it, and the other half reminding myself that you wouldn't have wanted me to, though it seems that was bollocks. That said, I have just had a rather spectacular break-up with Mary, so I reckon the sane thing to do is to go home, have some tea, and not jump into anything until I've had a chance to catch my breath.”

“That seems-” started Sherlock, and was interrupted again.

“Of course, neither of us ever go for the sane thing to do,” said John. “So, actually, let's go home, have some tea, and jump straight into bed.”

Sherlock blinked. “Is the tea is crucial to this plan?” he asked.

John shrugged. “We can negotiate,” he allowed. “Maybe have it afterwards.”

Sherlock found himself smiling and reaching out for John, catching hold of his hand and giving it a squeeze. “I can agree to that,” he said.

John smiled back and the cabbie grinned at them in his rear-view mirror, and Sherlock felt completely, perfectly happy for a moment before his brain insisted on pointing out all the ways that this could go wrong. He pushed them aside to be thought through later, when he could make a list of how best to avoid disaster.

“Besides,” added John after a few minutes had passed, “I think you're underestimating yourself when it comes to relationships. We've never really had any major fallings-out as friends, despite your attitude to communal living, my desire for a sanitary kitchen, and the fact you faked your own death.” Sherlock sighed. He really was never hearing the end of that one, was he? “And all this time, with Mary,” continued John, “you were prepared to put my happiness before your own. That was- Sherlock. I really appreciate that.”

John looked indescribably pleased as he said that, even if Sherlock could still see the shadow of guilt in his eyes over the mess they'd left in the church. He wished that they were out of the taxi already so that he wasn't restrained by a seatbelt from kissing John. 

“I look forward to you expressing just how much you appreciate it,” he said.

John laughed, his face creasing along lines that Sherlock had long-since memorised. A warm surge flooded through Sherlock, and he smiled happily back. _This was worth waiting for,_ he thought. Worth everything he had gone through, even worth having to sit through that dinner last night without murdering Mary's mother. He just hoped he'd be able to enjoy it for a long time to come.


End file.
